


A Croissant

by Hathore



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor is a deviant, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Post Revolution, hankcon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 18:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19469260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hathore/pseuds/Hathore
Summary: A very fluffy domestic fic about croissants. That’s it!





	A Croissant

**Author's Note:**

> A great big thank you to @rkem00 on twitter for proofreading this for me <3

There’s a small bakery in a strip mall near Hank’s house. It’s wedged between a forgettable Irish pub and an antique shop, all painted beige and covered with stucco. A red and green striped awning shades the bakery’s windows, and metal tables and chairs sit out front, left perpetually disordered by customers eager to sit, chat, eat, and leave. Based on the modest exterior, one wouldn’t expect to find the nearly perfect baked goods housed inside. On any given weekend, the bakery is packed with customers, each jealously eyeing the glass counter case, hoping that the next person in line doesn’t take the last chocolate chip cookie or cherry danish.

Of all the things the bakery makes, Hank’s favorite by far is the huge, fluffy croissants filled with slices of ham and swiss cheese. However, these croissants are so highly coveted among the local suburbanites, it’s rare for even one to be left past eight in the morning. Since Hank hardly ever rises before 8:00, the only reason he even knows these croissants exist is because of the occasional long nights he spends on stakeouts that stretch into the dim morning hours when the bakery first opens its doors. On those mornings, it’s a welcome comfort to buy a freshly baked croissant that he can devour on the drive home before passing out in bed. Most days, however, the croissant remains a mythical object that exists only in the back of Hank’s mind.

Since entering a relationship together, Hank and Connor have discovered that one of their favorite ways to spend a weekend afternoon is to take walks around the nearby shops and parks. Hank finds the exercise and fresh air invigorating, while Connor delights in analyzing his surroundings, constructing possible scenarios that could have led to the details he sees. To Connor, each sidewalk stain and muddy footprint holds a tale that he and few others are able to read. He takes pride in telling Hank his preconstructions connecting the details together, and Hank listens to him, finding joy in Connor’s enthusiasm.

They like to play a game where Hank points out something unusual in the environment, and Connor will do his best to search out clues to offer an explanation. One Saturday afternoon, as they pass in front of a liquor store, Hank starts, “Alright, Sherlock, what happened here?” while pointing at a narrow skidmark and some broken glass on the sidewalk.

Connor thinks for a moment, his LED cycling yellow, then says, “Simple. An accident report was filed sixteen days ago, describing a collision between a biker and a pedestrian at this location. According to the report, the pedestrian was exiting this shop right as the cyclist was passing by, and neither was able to stop in time.” He scans the cement for a moment, then crouchs by a small brown stain. “The pedestrian was holding a vodka bottle, which shattered upon impact with the ground. She fell and cut her hand.” Connor smiles playfully up at Hank and teases, “You’re going to have to find me something harder than this.”

Hank rolls his eyes, before putting his hands on his hips and cocking an eyebrow. “I know where I can find something hard for you, but you’re going to have to work for it.”

Connor grins and stands up, then takes Hank’s hand and whispers in his ear, “I would love that.” He kisses Hank’s cheek then continues, “Come on, let’s keep walking.” Hank had told Connor about the bakery and croissants he likes so much, and so they had planned to walk there to get a treat.

They had only walked for a few more minutes when the bakery comes into view. Hank opens the door for Connor, who is drawn in by the smell of fresh yeast, butter, and chocolate. The small shop can barely contain the line of customers, which snakes from front to back to front, then to the entrance. Connor takes a moment to examine a glass box humming in the corner, rotating immaculately decorated cupcakes inside like little rows of dancers. The floor of the shop is linoleum, cracked with age, and a large chalkboard wall looms behind the glass counter case, emblazoned with a tacky logo that looks like it was designed thirty years ago. As they wait in line, Hank points to an empty spot in the front case and exclaims, “Damn! I was sort of hoping they had one of those left. Ah, well, I’ll find something else.” After Hank settles on purchasing a classic blueberry muffin, they walk back to Hank’s house to enjoy the rest of that Saturday afternoon.

~

The next morning, Hank startles awake much earlier than usual. He rolls over, eyes closed, to flop his arm over Connor, but he meets empty blankets. Opening his eyes, he spots a yellow sticky note stuck to the bed frame above where Connor would normally rest his head. It reads:

_I’ll be back soon._

_-Connor_

Connor sometimes gets out of bed much earlier than him, whether it’s to walk Sumo, clean, or practice one of his many hobbies, but he only leaves a note if he has left the house. And although Hank is by now no longer surprised to occasionally wake up without Connor, he still delights in finding a note left for him, reminding him that Connor cares enough to leave a reassurance, even if he’s out for just a brief jaunt.

Every one of Connor’s notes Hank has stowed away in his nightstand drawer, hoarding them like precious gems. On the days when Hank’s depression gets overwhelming, he sits on the edge of the bed, hunched over the open drawer, shuffling through the little papers. Some of them have suffered from some water damage, little traces of the tears Hank sheds as he remembers that yes, Connor always comes back. Yes, his sweetheart loves him. Hank peels the latest note off the bed frame and leans over to put it in his nightstand drawer, then settles back into the bed and lets his thoughts slip off, comforted by the promise of his lover’s return.

~

“Hank.”

Connor’s voice is close behind him. Something touches his shoulder, then fingers brush against his temple and push the hair from his face. This is Hank’s favorite way to wake up—with Connor’s hands and voice surrounding him, gently lifting him from the depths of sleep. Sleep used to be Hank’s respite, one of the few ways that he could escape and numb himself for a few hours, a tool to help him get through one more day. Waking up would mean the return of his self-hating thoughts and loneliness, and the return to flat, monotonous life. These days, with Connor there to greet him in the morning, waking has transformed into a small pleasure he can hold close all day long.

“Hank, wake up. Look what I have."

Hank frowns and cracks open his eyes. He turns his head and sees Connor bent over the bed, looking attentively down at him, watching as Hank’s eyes track from Connor’s face, down his arms, and come to rest on the white paper bag perched in one hand.

“Look,” Connor says, and with a very self-satisfied gleam in his eyes, he opens up the bag and angles it toward Hank so he can see inside. As soon as Hank recognizes its contents, his eyebrows shoot up and his face splits into a sleepy smile.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes." A smile lifts the corners of Connor's mouth when he hears the excitement in Hank's voice. Hank leans up on one elbow and reaches into the bag. He pulls out a croissant, still warm, and brings it straight to his mouth to bite into one deeply brown, crunchy end.

“Mmmmf, oh my god,” Hank mumbles around the mouthful. Pastry still in hand, he closes his eyes and slumps back against the mattress. Often, he wonders how he managed to capture the attention of Connor, so caring and perceptive, and he jokingly asks, “How do you even exist?”

Connor takes off his coat and hangs it in the closet. “I thought you knew,” he replies while climbing into bed, “I am an android created by Cyberlife, made possible only after decades of research and thousands of years of human advancement. One could say I’m a wonder of modern technology.”

“Oh my god,” Hank repeats, this time in exasperation. He squints up at Connor, eyes narrowed, but there’s a smile creeping at the edges of Hank’s lips.

Connor settles next to him to enjoy a treat of his own. He loves watching Hank appreciate simple, human pleasures. He slips one hand under the blankets to lay his palm on Hank’s soft chest, feeling the whorls of gray hair and slow thump of his heart. Connor’s hand slides lower, his flat palm caressing Hank’s belly on its way down to his hip, and he pulls their bodies closer together.

Hank finishes the croissant quickly, then they quietly lie in each other's arms for a long time, watching the rays of sunlight crawl along the floor. Finally, Hank speaks. “Any chance of this becoming a regular occurrence?”

“Maybe if you’re lucky,” Connor laughs.

“I already am. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome, Hank. You always are.”


End file.
